


i thank my wicked dreams

by frankie_31



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Adult Film Studio AU, Alpha Derek Hale, IT Technician Stiles Stilinski, Kid Fic, Lonely Peter Hale, Lonely Stiles Stilinski, Mayor Talia Hale, Medium Burn, Minor Vernon Boyd/Isaac Lahey/Erica Reyes, Multi, Sane Peter Hale, Stiles Stilinski Saves The Hales, The Hales Adopt Stiles Stilinski
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-17
Updated: 2020-07-17
Packaged: 2021-03-04 22:07:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,266
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25323646
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/frankie_31/pseuds/frankie_31
Summary: Stiles Stilinski didn’t ever dream of working in the basement of an online adult film agency. But it pays the bills (and then some) and it keeps him from sitting alone in the same apartment he’s had since freshman year at Beacon Community. He’s resigned to slugging away at data reports and payroll for the rest of his life.Then change comes in the form of a nosy, bespectacled kid. By returning the child to his boss, Peter Hale, Stiles is drawn into the complicated and secretive lives of the Hale family. All of the Hales keep secrets but none so much as the black sheep of the family, Peter. Stiles can’t help but begin unraveling the gilded threads that keep the Hales suspended in the upper echelons — if not to understand them, then to understand Peter.Peter makes Stiles feel alive for the first time in a long time. The Hales make Stiles feel wanted. How could Stiles ever resist?
Relationships: Allison Argent/Scott McCall, Bobby Finstock/Kira Yukimura, Lydia Martin/Jackson Whittemore, Peter Hale/Stiles Stilinski, Vernon Boyd/Isaac Lahey/Erica Reyes
Comments: 44
Kudos: 303
Collections: Teen Wolf Bingo





	i thank my wicked dreams

**Author's Note:**

> This is a love letter to Jennifer Cruisie and Chappell Roan.

Stiles has spent years folded like a pretzel in his ergonomic desk chair, mindlessly pushing numbers through Excel’s formulas and listening to the same shitty pop-punk he liked in middle school. Today is just a normal day in the office. Stiles is in the process of updating their site visitor stats log when something pinches Stiles’ calf under his desk. 

His immediate response is to shriek and leap away from his desk, expecting a vicious spider or some kind of rat to be lurking under his desk infecting him with rabies or venom or both. He peers under his desk warily, hand up to cover his face from any kind of surprise attack. 

Instead of a four-legged critter, Stiles finds big, hazel eyes peeping at him from under the desk. 

Stiles shrieks again. 

“Stop _yelling_ ,” the child shrieks back, covering his ears. He’s tan and short with giant bug-eye glasses and freckles. His hazel eyes are screwed up in frustration. “Please!”

“What are you _doing_ under there?” Stiles snaps, lifting up his pant leg at the same time. There’s a bright red welt on his calf and he points at it accusingly. “Did you _pinch_ me?”

“I am _looking_ for _trolls,”_ the boy says shortly. He crawls out from beneath the desk and puts his hands on his little hips. He’s wearing khakis and a cardigan. He looks like a Young Republican. “I was seeing if you have rock skin.”

“Oh, obviously, checking for rock skin,” Stiles scoffs and, right about then, then he realizes two things. One, he’s arguing with a child. Two, he’s arguing with a child in front of his coworker. He ignores Danny’s obvious gaze. “Where did you even come from?”

While the payroll/ IT area of the Pink Pony is reasonably tame, the business Stiles does tech support for is a tailored adult video website. Clients request specific scenarios and the minds at the Pink Pony recreate their wildest fantasies. They have a staff of 27 performers and a myriad of clerical support, scriptwriters, two film crews and upper management in the building at all times. 

“Uncle Peter brought me to work,” the kid says. He pushes his glasses up his nose with his palm and squints around the room. “He _said_ there were trolls down here.”

“Wow,” Danny says. He’s looking at Stiles and the kid like they’re a super interesting soap opera on TV. “That’s rude. And you should not be here.”

“Uncle Peter?” Stiles asks, snapping his fingers as he finally catches up. Peter Hale is the CEO of their studio. “You’re a Hale.”

“I’m one Hale of a kid,” the child chirps, parroting someone. “My name is Three.”

“Well, firstly, that isn’t a name. Secondly, return from whence you came, Three,” Stiles says, waving his hand at the kid. 

“It is to a name,” Three argues, crossing his arms. “It’s my name. ‘Sides, I don’t know how to get back to Uncle.”

Stiles looks at Danny hopefully but Danny just puts his headset back on and turns back to his computer. Stiles sighs but docks his own headset. He stands and regards Three carefully. 

“Let’s go,” Stiles says, plotting the safest-for-young-minds’ route to get to the boss’ office.

“What is your name?” Three asks in a careful, polite dictation. 

“Stiles.”

“Will you hold my hand please, Stiles? I don’t like the ponies in the hallways,” Three says. His little face is just barely pinched with nerves. 

True to the business name, the decor of the building is full of pony motifs and bright pink colors. Fluorescent, fuschia ponies gallop the hallways and reception area. Deeper into the building, the ponies give way to a more western themed neon cacti and cow print. 

“That makes two of us, kid,” Stiles says. He allows Three to stick a carefully groomed hand into his own calloused one and then they head upstairs. “For the record, your uncle was being mean. There are no trolls in the basement. Just some really smart, handsome men. Equally smart. Equally handsome.”

“He pulls my leg a lot,” Three says. He sighs. “I’m not great at telling when he’s pulling my leg.”

“I don’t know what to say to that,” Stiles says, gesturing upwards. “Tell him to leave your leg alone.”

“Do you think that would work?” Three asks, meeting Stiles’ eyes seriously. 

“Absolutely, my dude,” Stiles says. “And if he doesn’t listen? Start pulling his.”

“Wait,” Three says, stopping beside a bronze statue of a cowboy on a horse. Someone’s attached a tiny pink cowboy hat to it. “You can pull grownup legs?”

“Man, you can pull anyone’s leg you want,” Stiles says, shrugging. He pulls Three’s arm a little and they start moving again. “The world is your oyster. You gotta take charge. My coach had this whole speech about—Wow. I think I memorized it by osmosis.” 

“You know a speech?” Three asks, mouth agape. “Grandmother knows a ton of speeches.”

“Well, she doesn’t know this one. It’s from the best movie ever made, _Independence Day_ ,” Stiles says. He peers around the corner to make sure there aren’t any actors walking by in the nude. They’re behind the receptionist desk and in the tamer area of the building but sometimes actors come down to the water cooler sans clothing. The coast is clear but he doesn’t want to take any chances. “Pull your sweater over your face.”

“What? Why?” Three asks, dutifully pulling the front of his cardigan up and over his head. “I can still see shapes.” 

“Shapes are okay,” Stiles says and starts steering Three through the hallway towards the boss’s office. “Just no graphic details. Also, for the record? If a stranger asks you to cover your face and starts leading you around, do not listen. Your stranger danger skills are super lacking.” 

“Stranger danger?” Three asks, peeking up at Stiles’ around his oatmeal-colored cardigan with one eye. “What is that?”

“You’re fucking with me,” Stiles says dourly. The eye widens at his coarse language and Stiles rubs a hand over his eyes. “You should always assume that strangers mean you harm. Anybody could be a predator.”

“My entire family is predators,” Three says, his one visible eyebrow furrows. “We are the apex predator of Beacon Hills.”

“Well, that’s all fine and good,” Stiles says, covering Three’s exposed eye when Jackson walks past, oiled up in chaps and daisy dukes. Jackson sneers at him and Stiles resists the urge to stick his tongue out. Stiles refocused. “But you’re like nine or something. And most people are bigger than you and they’ll kidnap you and get you on a flight to Europe and then what? You’re on milk cartons for the next decade.”

“I’m six,” Three offers after a brief moment of silence. 

“I thought you were Three,” Stiles says, grinning down at him and Three breaks into giggles. 

“You’re pulling my leg!” He says, hugging Stiles’ arm. “Now I’ll pull yours.” 

“Okay, shoot,” Stiles says. He can see the doorway of Peter Hale’s office. 

“I’m a wereduck,” Three says, pulling the corner of his cardigan down so he can look at Stiles with both eyes. 

“Do you quack at the full moon?” Stiles asks, smiling a little. 

“Yes! And I get the uncontrollable urge to bare my _beak_ ,” Three cheers and then he charges through Peter’s doorway. “Uncle Peter! Do you know what a milk carton is?”

Stiles steps into the doorway, crossing his arms and leaning on the sill. He’s never actually been in Peter’s office. The pony motif continues into here and the decor is abysmal. There’s a huge, blown up photo of Peter on the wall from what must be the eighties. He’s pouting into the camera and he’s got on a frosty, glittery lip gloss. The giant headshot is between two brown and white cowhides and beneath a set of gold lacquered steer horns. 

Peter is behind his desk with an armful of Three and Erica is sitting in the chair across from him. She’s dressed like a 50s pinup astronaut and she’s got her bubble helmet in her lap. 

“Batman,” she says, smiling toothily. “You found the brat.”

“Catwoman, you look fantastic,” Stiles replies. 

“A milk carton?” Peter asks, patting Three’s head. He pulls Three’s cardigan down back to its rightful place and straightens the line of buttons a little. “I am familiar with milk cartons.”

“My face is going to be on one,” Three says, leaning back and looking at Stiles. “Stiles said someone’s going to kidnap me and take me to Yerp. Then I get to be on milk cartons.”

“Ah,” Peter says, raising his eyebrows. “Well, that’s typically a negative thing, dear nephew.”

“Oh,” Three says, thrown. He perks up a little. “Can Stiles come to dinner?”

“We have that thing tonight,” Peter answers, seriously. “Our secret, evil, cult dinner.”

“He’s pulling your leg,” Three informs Stiles, craning his neck. “It’s a normal dinner. We run around the woods and sing to the moon. Daddy barbecues.”

Erica coughs a laugh, leaning forward in her chair and hiding her mouth behind her hand. 

“Stiles cannot come to dinner tonight,” Peter says, smiling fondly down at Three. “Perhaps next time.”

“Next time?” Three asks, climbing off Peter’s lap and running over to stand before Stiles. “Please?”

Stiles looks at Peter who shrugs. Erica is holding her helmet to her chest and grinning. 

“Maybe! Ask me next time,” Stiles says. “But also, don’t invite strangers to your home.”

“Stranger danger,” Three says sagely, nodding. He holds out his tiny hand to Stiles and then, in a funny little politicians’ voice, he says, “It was great connecting with you. I look forward to our future collaborations.” 

“Jesus,” Stiles says, shaking his hand. “Alright, kiddo.”

“Stiles, thank you for returning the crown jewel of the Hale family to me,” Peter says, standing. He crosses the room and collects Three effortlessly. “I apologize for the interruption to your day. Like all Hales, he is precocious to a fault and has zero comprehension of how much of a headache he is.”

“He’s not a headache,” Stiles says, furrowing his eyebrows. Peter’s disregard of his bright, funny nephew rankles Stiles. “He’s an intelligent, interesting kid. He is welcome in the _troll cave_ whenever he wants.”

“Ah,” Peter says, eyebrows lifting. 

“In addition, he is woefully under prepared for the real world. He’s loose in a— in an _adult facility._ It’s lucky he found IT before the filming sets. Also, he doesn’t have a single self-preservation instinct in his body. He doesn’t know about _stranger danger_ ,” Stiles snaps. 

Erica whistles slowly. 

“Might I ask,” Peter says, voice silky and smooth. “Why do you even care?”

“Peter, babe. Did you know Stiles’ dad is the Sheriff?” Erica asks, coming over and taking Three from Peter. Three winds a lock of her hair around his finger in a practiced motion and she rubs her nose on his cheek. Three is watching Stiles and Peter carefully both with wide eyes and Stiles forcefully tamps down his urge to keep lecturing Peter. 

“Stiles is the most paranoid, suspicious man I know,” Erica says. “But he is also a fiercely protective person who only wants what’s best for his friends and family. Stiles was my knight in shining armor in high school. I didn’t need an alert dog because Stiles was always there and always ready.” 

“Alright, let’s not be dramatic,” Stiles says, crossing his arms. Erica smiles at him and then at Peter. 

“He sounds accusatory because he’s an asshole. But he’s a well-meaning asshole. Pardon my French, Three,” she says. Then she turns her focus on to Stiles. “Stiles, Three is the happiest, safest kid in America. His family is always around and they want what is best for him. They aren’t ditching him in the mall. He’s in a building of great, good people and you _know_ the sets are passcode locked. The most he’s going to see is someone in a bikini on their lunch break.”

“I can admit my faults,” Peter says, clapping his hands once. “There are definitely some gaps in Three’s abduction education. I’ll bring this to his mother tonight.”

“I came on a little strong,” Stiles says, shifting on his heels. “Sorry.”

“And then there was peace in the kingdom of the Pink Pony,” Erica says, spinning Three around. “Aren’t grownups silly?”

“Very silly,” Three says. “Thank you for, uh, your effective problem solving.”

“You got it, Mister Mayor,” Erica coos. “Stiles, did you know Three’s grandmother is Mayor Hale?”

“That explains so much,” Stiles says, taking in the pint-sized khakis with new understanding. He looks at Peter one more time, just once. He’s watching Erica snuggle Three with a fond look on his face. “Alright, I have to leave now.”

“In addition to being a paranoid bastard, Stiles is also allergic to social interactions,” Erica informs Peter. “Crawl back to your dungeon, Stilinski.”

Stiles considers protesting that he’s not against social interactions, he just always feels like he’s intruding. He decides to keep it to himself. 

“Thank you for your insight,” Peter says and he pats Stiles’ shoulder. 

“Bye, Stiles! I loved meeting you,” Three yells, waving dramatically from his perch on Erica’s hip. “I loved it.” 

“Bye,” Stiles says and escapes back towards the basement. 

***

Stiles is doing sound for an after-hours production Allison and Kira are performing that same night when he sees Peter again. For an extra buck, Stiles helps with the films that take place after the day shift has left. The highest tier of clients, the gold members, have access to 24-hour turnaround on their video requests. Occasionally, their gold members request films late enough in the day that it requires extended office hours to complete on time. 

Peter had come in at the start of filming, absolutely silent as he made his way to the side of the set. It’s been a rough shoot from the start and, thirty minutes later, Derek is frowning at the viewfinder like it insulted his mother. 

“Look, Kira,” he says finally, standing up and crossing his arms. “You’re playing a tourist being seduced by a mermaid. Just lean into the adventure a little. It’s magical and exciting. You’re holding a beach ball for a reason. Use it.” 

“I feel like I would be scared of a mermaid, Derek,” Kira argues, balancing the beach ball on her hip. “I’m just a fun, ditsy tourist and this person comes out of the water? But it isn’t even a person. It’s a mermaid? I would be scared.” 

“You could be scared and turned on,” Allison offers from her place on the couch. She’s got seashells stuck on her boobs and sweatpants on. Her tail is a latex sheath that she rolls on and it’s hanging from a clothing rack beside the couch. “Like your adrenaline is flowing and it just makes you crazy with lust.”

“I don’t think being scared is sexy,” Kira says. She sighs. “I’m trying.”

“I know you are,” Derek says. He comes out from behind the camera and pats her shoulder. “Let’s take five. Get some electrolytes and we can look at the script again.”

“I’m sorry,” Kira says, biting her lip. “I’m trying.” 

“What if we switch them?” Peter asks from the chair beside Allison. They’re sharing a box of Cheez-its. “May I see the script?”

Allison trades him her script for the box and he flips through it briskly. 

“He just specifies that he wants two dark-haired women,” Peter says after a moment. “Kira, darling, how do you feel about being the mermaid?”

“I could make that work,” Kira says, tapping her chin. “The tail is super cool.”

“The tail is all yours,” Allison says cheerfully. “Do I get her bikini? It’s so cute.” 

The bikini is cute. It’s red and the cups are heart shaped. The bottom is a ruffly, delicate red lace. 

“Makeup and hair already left,” Derek says, exhaling slowly. “Uncle, would you—“

“Yes,” Peter interrupts, smiling widely. “I would love to step in.”

Stiles snorts then and Peter’s smile shrinks a little. 

“No hate,” Stiles says quickly, waving his hands. “I just thought it was—uh. Cute. You seem excited.” 

“Cute is not a word that’s used to describe me often,” Peter says thoughtfully. “But I’ll accept it.” 

Stiles trails after them to the vanity, slouching in a chair off to the side of them. He watches Peter work, bouncing his foot aggressively. 

“Why’s he called Three?” Stiles asks, unable to stop himself. “Sorry. Not my business. I’ll shut up.”

Peter pauses from dabbing lipstick on Allison’s lower lip and smiles over at Stiles. His hands are huge compared to her delicate features and Stiles’ mouth dries a little at the drag of Peter’s finger on her mouth. 

“His grandfather, my brother-in-law, is Reginald. His dad is Junior. And he’s Three,” Peter says. “We tried Reggie but it didn’t sit right.” 

“And he’s Derek’s nephew?” Stiles asks, wrinkling his forehead. “And you’re his great-uncle?”

“Correct,” Peter says. He begins dusting some power off Allison’s face. “He was rather taken with you.”

“He’s a cool little dude,” Stiles says, leaning forward and picking up the eyelash curler off the table. “How do these things work? You just bend your eyelashes with it?”

“I should’ve known you were the root of his new vocabulary,” Peter says, carefully taking the curler from him. “He called me ‘dude’ for the first time in his entire life today.”

“He’s like a little senator,” Stiles says, raising his eyebrows. “Does he ever run amok?”

“Absolutely,” Peter says with a secretive smile. “He is quite a little beast.”

Shooting goes smoothly from there out and Stiles is packing up the sound equipment by midnight. Allison and Kira are bundled up in sweat suits and they leave with tired waves. Stiles helps the Hales break down the set after his equipment is put up and they’re discussing dinner quietly beside him. 

“It’s kind of late for dinner,” Stiles comments. “Your family is still up?”

“We’re night owls,” Derek says, shrugging. “The kids are definitely asleep but I’m sure most of the older Hales are still kicking.” 

“Must be nice to have such a big family,” Stiles says, hugging the beach ball to his chest. A big glob of lube slides off the side and smacks against the ground. It’s a testament to his constant exposure to sex that he doesn’t even flinch. “It was mostly just me and dad at dinner when I was growing up. How many people come to your dinners?”

“Once a month the entire clan gathers,” Peter says. He begins sanitizing the beach ball in Stiles’ arms. “Probably thirty people?”

“Thirty?” Stiles gapes. “Wow. That’s amazing.” 

“It’s only amazing when it isn’t Christmas time,” Peter says, quirking his mouth. “Or birthdays. Lots of birthdays.” 

“It sounds nice,” Stiles sighs. He begins deflating the ball. “I like giving gifts. I’m pretty good at it.” 

“You?” Derek asks, raising an eyebrow. “You didn’t even know my name until six months after you started working here. You called me D. Hale forever.”

“That’s your log in for the system,” Stiles says shrugging. “Besides, now I like you a lot. And I would get you an excellent gift. Two actually, considering.” 

“Considering?” Peter asks, smiling at them. 

“Considering he’s the Christmas baby,” Stiles says. “I pay attention.”

“So you do,” Peter says. “Well, This has been an illuminating shoot. Good work, boys.” 

“I’ll see you around,” Stiles says. “Night.”

He leaves the Hales to locking up, thinking of their huge family dinner waiting for them. Thinking of his own empty apartment full of furniture he hates and microwave meals. 

He goes home.

***

Stiles is eating breakfast at his favorite café on Saturday, slowly making his way through a platter of pancakes and eggs, when something smacks into the window to his right. 

_“Stiles,”_ Three gasps, smearing spit on the glass. He’s wearing a flannel two sizes too big today and it’s incredibly incongruous with his khakis and boat shoes. _“You’re here!”_

A woman stands behind Three. She has tepid blonde hair twisted into an elegant knot on the back of her skull and a pale gray dress/suit thing on. She looks fragile and delicate, like the wind would carry her off. Her face twists briefly into confusion and she’s already started apologizing when Three’s words sink in. Then, she picks up Three and carries him brusquely inside the café like a linebacker in heels. 

“Stiles,” she says, voice soft and raspy like tissue paper. “Are you Stiles?”

“It is, mother,” Three cheers, scrabbling out of her grasp. “It’s him.”

“Hello,” Stiles says, unable to think of anything else to say. 

“I’m Minnie, Three’s mom. And I have heard enough about you in the last four days to fill a book,” the woman says, still softly. She flags down a waiter with a flick of her wrist. “A mimosa, please. And a glass of milk. 2%, if you could.”

“Please, sit,” Stiles says, digging deep for his manners. He frowns a little, uncomfortable. 

“Stiles, you are bigger than the Wiggles in my house,” she sighs, drifting into the chair across from him. “Three, take a seat.” 

“Yes, mother,” Three says, vibrating into the chair beside Stiles. “Hello, Stiles.”

“Hey, little guy,” Stiles says and Three beams. 

“I’m so glad we ran into you,” she says. The waiter drops off her champagne flute and a kiddie cup for Three. “I was going to track you down in Peter’s den of iniquity on Monday. Three wants to ask you something.” 

“Yes,” Three says, setting his cup back down. He inhales carefully, big eyes bugging behind his glasses. “I am playing in a Little League game against Beacon Heights next Saturday. Would you please come? Please, please. Oh. Sorry, I’m so excited.”

“I would be so happy to come,” Stiles says helplessly. Three’s eyes widen and he shimmies in his chair. He glances at Minnie who is smiling gently at him. He thinks that she might do everything gently until he remembers her carting Three’s entire body into the café like it was a roll of paper towels. “And you never have to be sorry for being excited. I’m so excited to get to see you play.” 

“Will you come to pizza too? After the game, even if we lose, we get pizza. And we lose kind of a lot,” Three says. He sucks his straw noisily and Stiles feels an unfamiliar rush of warmth towards the kid. 

Stiles glances at Minnie and she nods. “I would love to come to pizza.” 

“And bowling!” Three asks, widening his eyes even more and clutching his hands to his chest. “We go bowling on every other Thursday. Will you come bowling?”

“Three, let’s start with the ball game,” Minnie interjects. She swirls her mimosa around carefully and takes a measured sip. “Stiles is a grownup and he probably has lots of things to take care of. We can invite him to bowl later.”

“I’ve never gone bowling,” Stiles says, tucking back into his breakfast. The Hales seem like they’re here to stay and his food is getting cold. 

“Are you eating maple syrup?” Three asks in a pitiful voice. “I haven't had maple syrup in years.”

“No conning, Three,” Minnie says. She looks at Stiles with a carefully neutral expression. “Three vomits if he eats too much sugar. Or high fats. Do not let him trick you.”

“I just think my life would be a lot fuller if I got to try a little bit of that stuff,” Three murmurs, still trying to con. “Just a tiny bite.”

“You can have a bite of eggs,” Stiles hedges and Three gazes up at him like he hung the moon. He turns to Minnie, “Or—Sorry. Can he?” 

“Sharing food is personal in our family,” she says, tilting her head carefully. Stiles feels like he’s missing something huge. “You can share if you’d like. But it means more to him than you.”

What a weird thing to say. 

“I’m gonna have to keep my eggs, little man,” Stiles decided on saying. “But there are some oyster crackers in this little bowl and you can have them.” 

To his credit, Three doesn’t look any less excited by the packet of crackers Stiles passes him. He munches happily on them as Stiles finishes his breakfast and Minnie drains her mimosa. 

Stiles and Minnie exchange numbers and then, in a flurry of waves from Three and a gentle wiggle of fingers from Minnie, they leave. Stiles is glad he’s finished eating because he doesn’t think he could finish in the quiet Three and Minnie leave behind. 

***

Stiles arrives a little early to the ball game. He wasn’t sure what one wore to little league games so he spent a little too long on his outfit. He ended up in a Henley and regular old pants. His hair is a mess but he didn’t end up having time to do anything with it before his anxiety decided he had to leave. He’s jogging from his Jeep towards the stadium when he spots Peter’s sculpted shoulders leaning down into the trunk of a slick sports car. 

“Yo,” Stiles says, slowing as he approaches. “Hey, boss.”

“Stiles,” Peter says, turning. He’s wearing a black t-shirt and a blue and white baseball cap with Three’s team on the front. Surprise colors his face. “I didn’t realize you were coming to the game.” 

“I’m surprised Three didn’t mention it,” Stiles says, scratching a hand through his hair. He pushes it all back from his face and it flops defiantly forward again. 

“Aside from Derek, I don’t spend much social time with family,” Peter says, face carefully placid. He looks at Stiles’ hair for a long moment before speaking again. “Three’s games and the monthly dinner are my main events.” 

“It can probably get overwhelming,” Stiles says awkwardly. He can tell he stuck his foot in his mouth. He scrabbles for a subject change. “Man, I haven’t been to a Little League game in years. I played with Scotty when we were seven for about a month before I was kicked off the team.”

“They kicked a seven-year old off the team?” Peter asks, closing his trunk and leaning on it. He crosses his arms and Stiles drags his eyes up from Peter’s biceps a little too late. 

“My mom was dying and I was pissed off at the world,” Stiles says. He shrugs. “I came after Jackson with a wiffle bat too many times. I was an unholy terror. But I lasted two weeks longer than I did in Boy Scouts.” 

“They kicked you out of Boy Scouts too?” Peter asks, laughing despite himself. “Let me guess. Did you stab the Scout Leader with a whittling knife?”

“Actually, that one is due to Jackson-related violence too. I pushed him off—He calls it a cliff but it was a glorified hill. Anyways, he fell in a patch of poison oak,” Stiles shrugs. His hair falls in his eyes again. “You think Jackson is a dick now? Well, you can’t answer that. But the Jackson that walks around the Pink Pony is an angel compared to the little dickhead he used to be.” 

“How have we never had a conversation before two weeks ago?” Peter asks, grinning with his perfect model’s teeth. “You’re astonishing.” 

“That is not a word people use to describe me,” Stiles says, referencing their conversation at the mermaid shoot. He pushes his hair uselessly back from his forehead again. “But I’ll accept it.” 

“Here, you’re driving me up the wall,” Peter says, leaning forward and setting his baseball cap onto Stiles’ head. His cologne whooshes into Stiles’ face and Stiles feels lightheaded. Peter pushes the hat back so the hair is all caught under it and then taps the brim once. “Better.” 

Stiles lets out a girly sigh, gazing up at Peter’s incredibly handsome face, and that would all be absolutely mortifying if Three didn’t scream his name from his left. He turns just in time to watch Three eat shit, falling on his face with a surprised ‘oof’. 

Stiles is jogging over, helping peel him off the ground before he even realizes what he’s doing. Three is cradling his arms to his chest in a weird way and Stiles is terrified he broke them until he realizes that Three is holding a crushed bouquet of flowers. 

“Oh no,” Three whispers, staring down at his mashed daffodils. “Your flowers.”

“ _My_ flowers?” Stiles asks, beaming. He kneels, dusting Three’s knees off for him. Three is still clutching the flowers, lower lip quivering, and Stiles smiles up at him. “I have never had anyone bring me flowers in my entire life.” 

“Never?” Three asks, stiffening his chin. 

“Not even once,” Stiles says. He takes them carefully. “These are the most special flowers I have ever gotten.” 

“We went to three different super markets to find daffodils,” Minnie says, smiling down at them. 

“Thank you,” Stiles says to them both. He looks back at Three. “Are your knees okay?”

“Uh, yeah,” Three says, looking at them himself with moderate surprise. “I’m okay.” 

“I’m Junior,” a handsome, impeccably groomed man says from behind Minnie. He has the dark, good looks of Peter and Derek. He holds out a hand for Stiles to shake and his grip is the perfect firmness of a practiced politician. “You must be Stiles.” 

“That’s me,” Stiles says, releasing his hand and looking for Peter without meaning too. He’s still leaning on his trunk, shoulders a little more slumped than they had been. Stiles looks back at Junior. Behind him are people he recognizes from dinner parties and town hall meetings his dad has dragged him to. “Madame Mayor, Mr. Hale.” 

“Hello, Stiles,” Talia says, shaking his hand as well. “It’s good to see you without your head in the punch bowl.”

“I want to specify that I only did that once and it’s because Cora dared me to put jalapeño dip on my eyelids,” Stiles says. 

“I forgot that Cora used to actually come to events,” Reginald says, laughing. “Now we can't get her into a dress for a hundred bucks.” 

“Hell, I’ll put on a dress for a Benjamin, Mr. Hale,” Stiles says, smiling. He always liked the Hales growing up. It appears not much as changed. “Tell me where and when.”

Reginald favors him with a hearty laugh, slapping Stiles’ arm and guiding him towards the open gate to the park before sticking his hands in the pockets of his summer jacket. Talia takes Reginald’s bent elbow, linking arms with him and they make their way into the park like they’re shooting a campaign commercial. Talia nods at Peter as they walk past him and Reginald waves, but neither stop to say hello.

“Hey, I gotta go get ready,” Three says, pulling Stiles' sleeve to get his attention. “Thank you so much for coming.” 

“Thank you for inviting me,” Stiles says, grinning. “And for the flowers.” 

“I’ll see you inside,” Three says, grinning back, and he and Junior head after Talia, lugging a big cooler on wheels. Three hugs Peter’s legs once they get closer and Junior slaps his shoulder in greeting. They seem a little warmer towards Peter but there’s a clear disconnect. 

“I didn’t realize you were part of our world,” Minnie says, folding her skinny arms over her stomach. Her thin blonde hair flutters over her shoulder and she starts walking towards Peter. Three and Junior are long gone. 

“I don’t know if I’m part of it,” Stiles says, following her. “But I used to visit it. My dad is the Sheriff.” 

“Oh,” Minnie says, running her fingers over the pearl strand around her neck. “I didn’t realize. Maybe I should have.”

Stiles shrugs, not sure what to say, and then they’re by Peter again. 

“Hey, Petey,” Minnie says, leaning in towards him. 

Peter dutifully lowers his head so she can peck his cheek and she pats his arm. 

“Three was practically bouncing out of the car on the way here,” she says, smiling at them both. “His favorite uncle and his new friend at the same game.” 

“I’m always happy to be here, Min,” Peter says and she sighs through her nose. 

“I know you are,” she says and Stiles gets the feeling he’s missing something again. 

They head into the park together and Stiles watches Peter shrink in on himself with every step until he’s a shadow of the loud, clever man who runs the Pink Pony. It doesn’t really make sense to Stiles until he spots a pair of baby-boomers staring Peter down as he climbs the bleachers. They’re dressed in sterile white clothing and they’re sitting close to Talia and Reginald. 

“Who are those vultures?” Stiles asks, leaning in close to whisper to Peter. Peter’s eyes widen in delight and the corner of his mouth lifts before Minnie chokes on a cough beside them. She’s covering her mouth tightly, looking just a little too brightly at them, and Peter sets off into a poorly-stifled laugh. 

“Those are my parents,” Peter says, raising his eyebrows at Stiles. He’s quiet until they’re turning onto their row. “Stiles, meet Elizabeth and Rudy Hale.” 

“Hello,” Stiles says, wincing at the icy expression on Elizabeth’s face. “Nice to make your acquaintance. Your acquaintances. Both acquaintances are nice to make.”

“Quit while you’re ahead, darling,” Peter murmurs and Stiles swivels to face the field and sits down. 

He immediately stands again once he catches sight of Three waving at him and he returns the waving with vigor. He can see Three’s grin clearly from their respectable place right behind the dugout and he matches it until Three turns around. 

“Who’s got some skin in this game?” Stiles asks, uncomfortable at the stiff silence surrounding their group. “Ten bucks says Three’s team slaughters the—the uh—The Eagles.”

“We don’t gamble on children,” Elizabeth says, arching one eyebrow at Stiles. “Surely your father taught you better than that.” 

“Well, he sure tried,” Stiles says. He exhales slowly and sits down beside Peter who has frozen into an attractive lump of ice. 

Minnie passes him a Coke from the cooler. 

He fucks around on his phone until the teams are done warming up and then Stiles gets wrapped up in the game. He spots Lydia and Jackson down the bleachers and then he makes a game out of picking their kid from the teams. 

Brad is adopted, which is perfect because he was a great reason for Jackson to process his abandonment issues in court-mandated therapy and Lydia’s repulsion to stretch marks remained untested. Brad is probably one of the happiest kids Stiles has ever met and Jackson is honestly unbearably sweet when he’s following Brad around the company BBQ’s. Lydia is the CFO of the Pink Pony and Jackson is one of their main stars. Lydia’s office, catty corner to Peter’s, has a giant photo to match Peter’s. It’s of Jackson dressed like an angel on a bed of pillow fluff and fairy lights. 

Stiles hates meeting with her because of it and, unfortunately, he has to meet with her often. 

He finally locates Brad on the pitcher’s mound, swinging his arm around like a total goofball. He’s dressed in Eagles’ colors, the team Three is playing against, and Stiles is bummed that he can’t cheer for both. Three is lined up third to bat and Stiles stands up in anticipation. This gives him the perfect view of Brad pinwheeling his arm before he lets the ball zip right into the kid up to bat’s head. 

“Jesus,” Stiles winces when the kid drops like a sack of potatoes. The coach cajoles the kid upright and prods him towards first. “Damn, Brad’s got a hell of an arm.”

“You don’t mean the Martin-Whittemore kid?” Peter asks, grimacing a little. 

“That’s Lydia and Jackson’s kid on the pitcher's mound,” Stiles says, glancing down at him. “Brad.” 

“Well, Brad’s got a real zinger for an arm,” Junior says placidly. Min’s soda can crunches a little in her hand but, when Stiles looks at her, she looks unfazed. 

They watch the second kid creep up to bat and he cringes as soon as Brad starts spinning his arm. 

“There’s no way he’s gonna do it again,” Stiles says to nobody but Peter shrugs in response. 

“He must have been practicing,” Peter says. “He wasn’t anywhere near this good last time.”

“Good is a funny word to use,” Stiles says, turning his baseball cap around so he can see better. 

Brad misses the second kid but only because he hits the deck as soon as Brad lets go. 

“Jesus,” Stiles yelps, loud enough that Jackson turns to look at him. 

“You better not be talking about my kid, Stilinski,” Jackson calls, pointing his finger at Stiles forcefully. “He’s a winner.” 

“He’s an executioner,” Stiles heckles back, ignoring the various Hales watching him like he’s a zoo exhibit. 

Lydia turns to them, impeccably dressed in some slinky green thing, and she waves at them. 

“Hello, Peter. Stiles,” she says simply and then she tugs Jackson down on the bleachers again. 

Brad stings another ball over home and the coach jogs in to peel the batter off the plate. He points at Brad a few times, miming an underhand and Brad nods carefully. 

Then he knocks the second kid on his ass with a whistling crack. The crowd winces in unison. 

“Okay, so. Are we just letting Three get nailed in the head?” Stiles asks, glancing over at Minnie. 

Three has drifted closer to them as Brad takes out his teammates with ruthless efficiency. He turns wide eyes on Stiles and his mom when he hears Stiles. 

“Hales finish what they start,” Elizabeth says, upper lip curling. “We aren’t cowards.”

“Okay,” Stiles says. “So, we are just letting Three get nailed in the head.” 

Peter is shaking beside Stiles and when Stiles glances over he’s relieved to find him laughing helplessly into his hand. 

“Three,” Minnie calls, holding an arm out. 

Three is over to them in an instant, zipping around the dugout fence and climbing up over the bleachers so he’s squished between Stiles and Minnie. Back on the field, the coach is working with Brad again, gesturing under hand with an air of desperation. 

“Do you want to keep playing?” She asks, wrapping an arm around his little shoulders. 

“I’m a Hale. And H-Hales finish what they start,” Three says, hiccuping. He turns mournful cow eyes on Stiles. 

“Well, I’m a Stilinski,” Stiles says, unable to keep his mouth shut. “And we can recognize a pattern. Baby Ruth is about to deliver your grownup teeth early.” 

Three’s hand flies to his mouth and he pales considerably. Peter dissolves into coughing laughter beside him. 

“If it was me? I wouldn’t be going back out there until the Concussion Machine is benched,” Stiles continues. 

“Stilinski,” Jackson snaps from down the bleachers. “Watch your mouth.” 

“I’m not hating the player,” Stiles says, raising his hands in surrender. “He’s a little monster. Major League material. Do they monogram hyphenated names on baseball jerseys?”

“I literally hate talking to you,” Jackson snaps. “I hate seeing your stupid face at work every day.”

“Boys,” Lydia says dryly, popping her bubblegum. “Think of the children.” 

“You work at Peter’s…business?” Elizabeth interjects, staring at Stiles. She looks like she’s just smelled something terrible. “As the...talent?”

“Woah,” Junior says, looking at Stiles with fresh eyes. 

“Minerva, you let a porno actor come to your son’s baseball game?” Elizabeth asks, standing up. Her husband stands too and he tries to look like he wasn’t just sleeping. “And sit next to us?”

“Wow,” Stiles says. He frowns. “That’s super rude.” 

“Mother,” Peter sighs. “Stiles is a perfectly respectable member of proper society. He does payroll and server maintenance. With his clothes on. Fear not.”

“Being a porno actor is perfectly respectable too,” Stiles says. Then he looks down at Three who is gazing up at him with wide eyes. Minnie looks like she’s trying to meld with the bleacher and Junior hasn’t stopped gaping at Stiles yet. “I don’t know what to say now.”

“I want to be a Stilinski,” Three says. “I don’t want Brad to nail me in the head with a baseball.” 

“You can be a Hale and not get nailed in the head with a baseball, son,” Junior says, visibly forcing himself to stop looking at Stiles. He reaches to pat Three’s head. “I’ll go tell coach you ate a bad hot dog. Grandma Liz, sit down and smile. There’s a game and beautiful sunshine. Life could be worse.”

Minnie smiles up at Junior, the first positive expression she’s had since the game started. Elizabeth and Rudy sit again. Three’s wringing his hands together nervously. 

“Hey, can I cheer for Brad since you aren’t playing anymore?” Stiles asks, leaning conspiratorially down towards Three. “If he takes out two more kids I’ll do a cartwheel.” 

“You can do a cartwheel?” Three asks, woes forgotten. “Wow. You can do anything, Stiles.” 

“I can do a cartwheel,” Peter says, leaning around Stiles. He’s big and warm and he smells like expensive cologne. “I can walk on my hands.” 

“Why have you never shown me?” Three demands, tiny hands fisted. “You should have shown me when I was a pup.”

“Well,” Peter says, watching Stiles carefully. His blue eyes flick back to Three. “If I’d shown you when you were a _baby_ I wouldn’t be able to show you now.”

“I was a cheerleader in high school,” Minnie says, eyes trained ahead on her husband where he’s talking to the coach. “I can do a cartwheel and walk on my hands and do a handspring.”

“Mother,” Three gasps, eyebrows furrowed. “I don’t even know what a hamspring _is.”_

“If Brad takes out three children, I’ll show you,” Minnie says, still looking ahead.

_Take that for gambling_ , Stiles thinks viciously towards Elizabeth. 

Brad manages to take out one more child before the coach pulls him but Stiles cheerfully cartwheels across a little patch of grass for Three anyways. It dissolves the last little bit of nerves left in Three and then he rejoins the game. 

Stiles takes a swig of his soda and wishes desperately that he was holding a beer. With Three gone, Minnie has frosted over again and Peter is a hulking, silent mass beside him. 

“So, what do you do for a living?” Stiles asks Minnie and Junior, leaning back on the bleachers behind him. 

“I’m a homemaker,” Minnie says distantly. She’s watching Three out on the field with intense focus. 

“She’s being modest,” Junior says, putting a hand on her knee. “My sister and I, Laura, run a little bounty hunting team. Min is our research guru. She’s our home base.”

“That’s awesome,” Stiles says, raising his eyebrows. “How do you get into bounty hunting?”

“Well, you get good at searching,” Junior says. “We Hale have a knack for tracking.” 

“Huh,” Stiles says. He’s missing something big with the Hales. He feels like he’s a blind mouse walking around an elephant that is the Hale family. “That’s cool.”

“So you aren’t one of Peter’s Pony Boys?” Junior asks, waggling his eyebrows like a chump. Stiles current assessment of Junior is that he’s harmless and kind of dumb. 

“Is that what you call them?” Stiles asks with delight, turning to grin at Peter. 

“Lydia definitely started that,” Peter says loftily. He winks at Stiles, “But you didn’t hear it from me.” 

“I guess Pony Boys is better than the Trolls,” Stiles says, elbowing Peter in the side. 

“That was an unkind joke,” Peter says, admonished. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine,” Stiles says, waving. “Danny printed out a fun sign about it. If you ever make your way ‘round our parts you should check it out.” 

“I’ll take you up on that,” Peter says, smiling. “Are you coming to pizza?”

“I am,” Stiles says. He scrunches his nose. “How does Three eat pizza if he can't have high fats?”

“He eats a tiny sliver and then he gets to munch on the meal Min packed him,” Peter says. “I usually get a salad in solidarity.” 

“You are more honorable than I,” Stiles says. “I’m going to eat a lot of pizza. Maybe an entire pizza.”

***

He ends up eating a sliver of pepperoni alongside Three and then following Peter to the salad bar. 

Three sword fights their carrots together when he gets back and Stiles has more fun with 12 six-year-olds and a roomful of strangers than he has in a long time. 

After, once Minnie and Junior have pulled Three off Stiles’ leg and stuffed him into their minivan, Peter walks Stiles to his Jeep. They loiter for no good reason in the parking lot just talking about nothing. The sun is shining and Peter is unbearably handsome. Eventually, Stiles can’t take the small talk anymore. 

“Do you want to go get a drink?” He asks, biting his lip a little and looking up at Peter. His heart is in his throat. 

“Stiles,” Peter says, smiling in a lovely, apologetic fashion. He heaves a sigh, biting the tip of his tongue and just kind of admiring Stiles. “I would. But I sign your check. And it would be a terrible abuse of power.” 

“You can abuse your power a little,” Stiles says, his smile turning a little dirty at the idea of Peter and power in the same bed. “I don’t mind. Really. Plus, Lydia signs my check.” 

“That is not what I meant,” Peter says, ducking his chin. “You unholy terror. My grandad has a saying.”

“Oh yeah? Hales finish what they start?” Stiles asks, sticking his hands in his pockets. 

“Don’t fuck the help,” Peter says, meeting Stiles’ eyes. 

Stiles barks a startled laugh, surprising a responding laugh from Peter. 

“Alright,” Stiles says, raising his hands in surrender. “Consider the help unfucked.”

“I’m glad you’re taking this well,” Peter says. “The last person I turned down threw a drink in my face.” 

“Well, they sound like they sucked,” Stiles says. “I think you’re a major regulation hottie but that doesn’t mean you owe me anything.”

“Thanks,” Peter says sardonically, rolling his eyes a little. 

“I solemnly swear not to make work weird,” Stiles says, holding up three fingers. “Boy Scout’s honor.” 

“I know for a fact that you were kicked out of Boy Scouts,” Peter says and Stiles laughs again. 

“That was told in the strictest confidence,” Stiles says. “As far as my résumé suggests, I got all the way to Eagle Scouts.” 

“Your résumé for the porn company you’re employed by?” Peter asks, raising an eyebrow. 

“Hey, hey. I’m employed by a high-quality, tailored media experience company,” Stiles mock-corrects. Peter takes his keys from him and begins unlocking his door. “We produce fantasies not porn. We bring dreams to life—We are basically Santa Claus for people’s dicks.”

“Thirty-seven percent of our clients are women,” Peter points out as Stiles climbs into his Jeep. He rolls the window down before he closes the door and Peter leans against it, grinning up at him with perfect teeth. “We’re Santa Claus for all sorts of genitalia.”

“I had a lot of fun today,” Stiles says. He pulls Peter’s hat off his own head and returns it to its rightful owner. “I’m glad I said yes when Three asked me to come.”

“This is the most entertaining game I’ve been to since Lydia threw her flat white in someone’s face for yelling at Brad,” Peter says. He sighs softly. “I want to apologize about my parents. They’re…”

“You don’t need to explain,” Stiles says. “It’s family. You don’t pick them.” 

“No,” Peter says, too rueful to be fun. “You certainly don’t.” 

“I’ll see you around, boss,” Stiles says and Peter pushes off his door and gives him a little salute. 

Stiles drives away, flushed and excited even though nothing happened. 

It was a good day. 

***

It’s after hours again and Stiles is just finishing up his monthly report. He presses save on the file and turns off his computer, cracks his back with pleasure. He’s often the last person in the building so he does a loop before he locks up. 

The ponies are even weirder in the dark, glowing faintly neon in the low lighting. The sets are empty and dark, the clerical bullpen is empty. There’s only one light on in the entire building. 

Peter’s. 

“Hey, boss,” Stiles says, knocking on the door jamb. Peter looks up at him, fingers threaded in his own hair, with a general air of desperation. “Woah. What’s going on?”

“I think I just deleted our entire archive,” Peter says, voice loose with exhaustion. “Well. That was an hour ago. But it’s still gone.”

“Well, you literally don’t have authorization to do that,” Stiles says, entering the room. He walks around Peter’s giant desk and then sits on it sideways. He leans over and opens the C: drive and, finding the Archive folder missing, does a general search. “Have you just been sitting here freaking out?”

“No,” Peter says. He exhales, pressing his fingers to the bridge of his nose. “Yes. This was a cherry on the top of an extremely long day.” 

“What else is going on?” Stiles asks. He’s located the Archive folder in the Fiscal Reports’ 2019 folder and moved it back. The computer projects that the transfer will take thirteen minutes. Stiles sits fully on the desk, leaning back on his hands so he can look at Peter. 

“My mother hates what I do,” Peter says. “Or me. I can’t tell the difference anymore. And she asked me to brunch.”

“Why’d you go?” Stiles asks, kicking his feet. “Sounds like you knew it was going to suck.”

“I did know,” Peter agrees. “I knew. And I went.”

“That was dumb,” Stiles says. To his horror, Peter looks actually sad. “Well. I can’t say it wasn’t dumb but I can say I don’t blame you.”

“Do you get along with your father?” Peter asks, leaning his head back against his seat. His big, muscular thighs spread and Stiles reminds himself to be cool. 

“We don’t hate each other,” Stiles says. His nervous energy expands, filling his entire body. He picks up Peter’s fancy calligraphy pen and sticks it in his mouth so he can gnaw it. “We just kind of... Orbit each other. We love each other and we have dinner every week but I don’t know if he thinks about me when I’m not around.”

“He is a busy man,” Peter offers diplomatically. “But I don’t know how someone couldn’t be enamored with you. Three has the right idea. Even if you are about to break my favorite pen.” 

“Anyways,” Stiles says, putting the pen down and sidestepping the compliment. “You went to brunch with Grammy Betty.”

“I’ll give you five hundred dollars to call her that to her face,” Peter says immediately, smiling a little. The smile fades. “We have this carefully contrived house of cards relationship. I pretend I don’t know she loathes me and she pretends I don’t own an adult film company.” 

“Somebody blew down the cards?” Stiles asks, gnawing on the pen again somehow. 

“I think Three did when he brought you along,” Peter says. 

Stiles bites down a little too hard and ink fills his mouth suddenly. He spits on instinct, the acrid chemical taste of ink filling his mouth, and Peter is splattered with tiny black drops of saliva/ink. 

“Oh my god?” Stiles says, drooling black all over his lap. “I’m so sorry. I’m more sorry than I knew I could be. Holy fuck.”

“I should have known,” Peter says. He pulls a handkerchief from his pocket and dabs at his face. “The universe had to get one more shot in.” 

“At least it’s not semen,” Stiles says, all of his subconscious thoughts bubbling to the surface, and he must make a crazy face of horror at himself because Peter laughs helplessly. Stiles feels greedy then, hungry for his happiness. “That would be a worse shot to the face.”

“Semen might actually help,” Peter says and there’s a beat where Stiles gets lost in his eyes and the breadth of his shoulders. “Stiles, please stop leaking ink onto my carpet. This is a real cowhide.”

“I’m gonna go launch myself into the sun,” Stiles says, wiping a hand over his mouth. It comes away black and he heaves a sigh.

“Hold still,” Peter says to Stiles’ growing excitement. 

He takes Stiles chin between a thumb and a knuckle and begins dabbing the ink from around his mouth. Stiles flashes back to Peter’s finger dabbing lipstick on Ally’s mouth and he shivers. Peter’s hands still for a splinter of a second and then he resumes his perfunctory cleaning. Stiles has to get out of here before he does something crazy like throw Peter’s computer out the window or suck on his fingers. 

“You’re so messy,” Peter says, eyebrows folded in concentration. He’s got one ( _big, strong, sexy)_ thigh between Stiles’ and he’s close enough that Stiles can smell his cologne. 

“You should see my bedroom,” Stiles says. He means it as a joke but it comes out rough and kind of dirty and Peter’s eyebrows raise. “I mean my floor. Not my—Well. I’m a dirty boy in many ways.”

“You can’t help it, can you?” Peter asks. The energy has shifted from stilted-not-quite-friends to something much richer and hotter. “I think you’d die if you couldn’t say every thought that filters through your brain.” 

“I think I would too,” Stiles says, shrugging. Peter’s cleaning the edge of his lips and it makes Stiles feel like he’s full of bees on Viagra. “I’ve always been a motormouth. Didn’t make for a lot of friends in high school. The only person who has ever appreciated my genius is Scotty. You know him? He does the prefab boyfriend multi-pack deal.”

“Stiles. Hush for a moment,” Peter says in a voice that leaves no room for argument. 

As if he can tell Stiles could argue with a fence post, the careful pinch on Stiles’ chin melts into a palm under his jaw. Peter’s fingers clamp on either side of Stiles’ jaw and he gives him a shake as Stiles parts his lips to speak again. 

“Gah,” Stiles says intelligently, brain leaking out of his ears. 

Peter begins wiping his lips and Stiles’ eyes cross while he tries to watch him. 

“I know all of my talent. Lydia handles the behind the scenes crew. I spend my day unruffling feathers and sending people to get blow-outs and mani-pedis. An actor is a fine-tuned machine that needs a gentle hand,” Peter says. His grip on Stiles’ chin is brutal and Stiles can’t think under the fog of arousal Peter’s laid on him. “Like an orchid.”

“What’s an orchid?” Stiles asks, partly to be a smart ass and partly to see if Peter will shake him again. 

Peter levels a look at him but then he lets him go. The blood rushes into the spaces left vacant of his fingers and Stiles teeters a little on the edge of the desk. 

“I think people spend all day trying to shut you up,” Peter says a little primly. “I don’t want to be one of them.” 

“I’m not taking it personally,” Stiles says. He thinks about the long, frustrating years of school and biting his own lips to keep from yammering. He thinks of his dad’s many sighs. “I’m pretty used to it by now.”

“I hope your friends treat you kinder than whomever you thought of that caused that expression,” Peter says. He folds his inky handkerchief and drops it in the trash can.

“Scott lets me talk for as long as I want to,” Stiles says. He draws a knee up to his chest and rests his chin on it. 

“What about Danny?”

“Danny isn’t really a friend,” Stiles says. “We’re cool. But not friends.”

“Erica seemed to think highly of you,” Peter says. He sits back in his big chair. “Is she a friend?”

“When we were kids, maybe,” Stiles says. “Now? You seem closer to her than I am.” 

“She’s Derek’s,” Peter says. He grimaces. “Derek’s friend, I mean. So we spend time together occasionally. But I don’t know that I would call her a friend. Do you want to know something depressing and pathetic?”

“Yes,” Stiles says immediately. 

“I think Three is my best friend. Or his mother,” Peter says. He presses a hand to his eyes. “I am the loneliest I’ve ever been in my entire life. And seeing my mother today just— My family was my anchor. Now I feel adrift.”

“That is pretty pathetic,” Stiles says. Peter shoots him a surprised glare. “It is! I’m kind of in the same boat. Scott is my only friend and he’s got all these new friends since he started working here. We haven’t hung out in months. Three is the closest thing I have to a friend right now.”

“That’s pathetic too,” Peter says and they both laugh. “A six-year old is our saving grace.”

“What were you working on when you were fucking with the Archive?” Stiles asks, changing the subject. He feels itchy. 

“I’m trying to balance our deposit slips with our client receipts. Lydia asked me to take care of it this week so she could take the afternoon off and start her vacation early,” Peter says. “I haven’t had to do this in years. It’s terrible.” 

“Alright,” Stiles says, pushing off the desk and standing. He pulls his cell phone out. “That’s going to take hours. I’m ordering us Chinese and we are going to be sad, lonely freaks together and finish balancing the books.” 

“I resent you calling me a freak,” Peter pouts. He leans back in his chair and fishes out his wallet. “I want lo mein, mushu pork and 20 pot stickers. And won ton soup.”

“To...share?” Stiles asks, phone hovering over the call button. 

“No,” Peter says. He holds out a credit card. “For me. You get whatever you want too, my treat.” 

“Wow, I can’t wait to watch you eat all that,” Stiles says, crossing and leaning over the desk on his elbows to take Peter’s card. He stays bent over, watching Peter watch him. “Are you going to unhinge your jaw like a python?”

The energy has calmed a little but Stiles can still feel it simmering between them. 

“I think I would still be in front of the camera if I could unhinge my jaw,” Peter says, opening and closing his clean white teeth a few times. 

“I can see it in bright lights,” Stiles says, raising his hands and spreading them wide. “Peter Hale—ya know. The guy with the mouth.” 

“Very funny,” Peter says. “Order the food.”

Stiles gets a little trill of excitement at the firm tone and Peter’s voice. People don’t generally order Stiles around. They cajole him or bargain or manipulate. But people rarely just—stick hats on his head or hand him credit cards and jerk him around by his jaw. 

Peter is very interesting. 

***

The next day, Stiles wakes up before sunrise. His bed is his childhood one, moved to a new apartment. His sheets are worn soft from use and probably a little grosser than they should be. His walls have no decoration and he hasn’t bought much furniture besides a couch he found on Craigslist and a rickety table set from Scott’s mom.

Peter probably has a ridiculous house. It probably screams him with every fabric choice. Stiles thinks you could probably see the house and now everything you need to know about Peter. 

Stiles wants to be known. 

Stiles wants someone to look at his living room and see somewhere they want to return to. Somewhere they want to stay. Someone. 

He goes to the mall. 

He doesn’t spend his money on anything besides takeout and weed. His salary-to-bill ratio is pretty great because he hasn’t changed his spending habits since he was a freshman in college and now he’s like a grown man. The point is, he has cash to burn. 

The furniture store has these fake living room sets and he walks through them until he finds one he doesn’t hate. He buys all the furniture and then buys the matching bedroom set. And a new kitchen table. He sets it all up for delivery. 

Then he goes to Bed, Bath and Beyond and loses his mind. He wants to cook for himself. He wants to eat salad. He wants a set of dishes that he can serve food to people on.

He’s in the bath area, feeling towels like a pervert, when something smacks into the side of his leg. 

“Stiles,” Three intones, muffled by Stiles’ hoodie. “I am so happy to see you.”

“Hey, little buddy,” Stiles says, ruffing Three’s wavy hair. He’s in another flannel and it’s absolutely a grown man’s with the sleeves rolled about fifteen times. Behind him, Minnie and Talia Hale are pushing a cart up to him. “Nice digs.” 

“He’s been very fashion forward of late,” Minnie says, following her kid and drawing Stiles into a hug. She smooths a hand over Stiles’ shirt. “I wonder where he got it from.” 

“Hi, Minnie,” Stiles says, smiling at her. She’s wearing more gray, this time in the form of a soft looking turtleneck and sandals with jeans. Talia is wearing a tailored emerald silky shirt thing befitting of the Mayor. “Madame Mayor.”

“You’ve got quite a haul,” Talia observes. “Peter’s influence, I presume?”

“Well,” Stiles says, looking at his ridiculously full basket. “Yeah, I guess so.”

“You two spent time together?” Minnie asks, a little smile sneaking on to her face. 

“Last night, yeah. Going over some fiscal stuff,” Stiles says. “Did he mention?”

“No,” Minnie says, just as quietly pleased. “I just know Peter and has a particular skill at finding one’s soft spots and encouraging them to shore up the exposed area.” 

“Yeah, he really does,” Stiles says, sighing. His basket is kind of sad in retrospect. “It’s going to take me all day to put this stuff together.”

_“Doyouneedhelp?”_ Three blurts, eyes wide behind his glasses. “I am the best helper. Mother, tell him.”

“Three, we talked about inviting ourselves places,” Minnie says. “That being said, Three is an excellent helper. And you have some color schemes in this basket that are questionable.”

“Uh,” Stiles says, thinking about his depressing apartment and all the food in the sink. “Not today. But the furniture is being delivered tomorrow.”

“Great,” Minnie says like he’s invited her over. “We can come by after brunch. I’ll bring some extra helpers for moving furniture.”

“Oh,” Stiles says, speechless. “That’s great.”

“Today, we’re going to talk about color wheels,” Minnie says. She turns to Talia and hugs her briefly. “Talia, we’ll see you for dinner.”

“Have fun, Minnie. Three, always a pleasure,” Talia says, shaking Three’s hand. She shakes Stiles’ as well, smiling kindly. “Stiles, I hope you’ll come to a dinner out of my place soon. I haven’t got to catch up with you since you were fifteen. It’ll be nice.”

“You got it,” Stiles says, lost in this encounter. The Hales are all a trip.

Talia leaves them to Minnie and Three comparing his hand towels to his bathmats with serious expressions. 

“Stiles, these reds do not match,” Three informs him solemnly. “This is cardinal and this? This is _burgundy_.” 

“I’m terribly sorry for the misstep, guvnor,” Stiles says in a thick Cockney accent. He scoops Three up and sets him on his shoulders. Three giggles from his perch and leans forward to eyeball Stiles’ goofily. “Surely, you can see better color matches from a better vantage point.” 

“I like green,” Three says loudly. “Red and green are c-c-complementary.” 

“And Christmas colors,” Stiles agrees, spinning carefully in place. “Christmas every day at Casa de Stilinski.” 

“Well, Christmas is fun and red and green are complementary,” Minnie says, face a perfect mask of patience. “I think a more muted green, sage perhaps, would go well with the cardinal red you picked out.” 

“I wonder if we can find a Santa Claus soap dispenser,” Stiles says, peering critically across the aisle. “In June.”

“Perhaps on the clearance shelf,” Minnie says, neatly returning Stiles’ burgundy towels to their home. “You boys can go check on that. I’ll work on the towels.”

Like a small, delicate warlord, Minnie gets them through the store in a little over an hour. Stiles now has a fantasy winter wonderland bathroom set up and some awesome living/bedroom stuff she called ‘accent pieces’. They’re in the parking lot, packing Stiles’ jeep with his many items, when Stiles is suddenly overwhelmed by how tired he is. 

“Thank you, Minnie,” he says. “You really didn’t have to spend an hour teaching me about colors and stuff but I’m glad you did.”

“Stiles,” she says softly, setting a hand on his elbow. “I want you to know that Three isn’t the only one in the family who enjoys your company. You’re a good kid. I hope my in-laws didn’t scare you off at the game.” 

“No,” Stiles says, chest full of gushy, Hallmark card feelings. He’s a little choked up and he tries his best to suppress his emotions. “They didn’t.”

“Fantastic,” Minnie says, thin eyebrow arched in a way that tells Stiles that she knows exactly what he’s feeling. “Text me your address and we will see you tomorrow. Say good-bye, Three.”

Three hugs Stiles like he’ll never see him again, nestling his little face into Stiles’ neck. Then, he pulls back and grins. He’s missing a tooth on the bottom and he has freckles scattered over his nose and his little fluffy curls look almost red in the sunshine.

Stiles smiles a little crookedly down at him, nods, and the Hales walk away. 

***

He spends the rest of the day cleaning in a panic and makes it to his dad’s house a little late for dinner. 

His dad is already seated, reading over a file at the dinner table with a plate in front of him. There’s a second plate to his left and Stiles drops in front of it, setting the pie slices he brought in the middle of the table. 

“Hey, kiddo,” his dad says, closing his file and pushing it aside. Stiles gives him four minutes before he opens it again and Stiles pulls out his own phone. 

“Hey, pop,” Stiles replies. His dad made turkey burgers with lettuce wraps and Stiles smiles down at his plate. “Looks awesome.”

“Thanks,” John says, smiling. “How’s work? I had Elizabeth Hale give me a vague, confusing call about my son working in ‘an unsavory industry’.”

“That sounds about right,” Stiles says. “I actually went to a Little League game over the weekend that the Mayor’s grandson played in. She was there. ”

“Oh, what do they call that kid?” John asks, scratching his chin. “Third or something. His dad is a jackass. Friendly guy-- but if Laura wasn’t around to pull his chain I think I’d have arrested him ten times now.”

“Three is the kid’s name,” Stiles laughs. “Junior is a total jackass. But his mom is cool.”

“Minnie,” his dad says, nodding. “She married in to the family when she was young. Like seventeen, I think. Used to be really sickly. I think she had some kind of auto-immune thing but I guess she’s recovered. Addison’s something or other.”

“Yeah, she seems okay now,” Stiles says, thinking about her quiet, muted mannerisms. He thinks she’s okay now. “Circling back to your original question, work is good. I’m getting in some OT lately.”

“That’s great,” his dad says. His eyes dart over to his case file. 

“How’s work going for you?” Stiles asks, finishing their weekly ritual so his dad can get back to work. 

“Same old, same old,” his dad says. “Oh, we got a Hale in the precinct now. Remember little Cora?”

“I’ll bet she’s not so little anymore,” Stiles says around a mouthful of burger. “Oh—Talia invited me to dinner.”

“The Mayor?” His dad asks, grinning. “I’m missing something.”

“Peter was watching Three and Three ended up down in our department. I brought three back up and then later Minnie invited me to the game. I don’t think Elizabeth liked me very much,” Stiles says. He takes another bite.

“You’re an acquired taste,” his dad says, shrugging. He doesn’t mean anything by it. 

Stiles thinks back on his conversation with Peter--

_“Do you get along with your father?”_

_“We don’t hate each other. We just kind of... Orbit each other. We love each other and we have dinner every week but I don’t know if he thinks about me when I’m not around.”_

_“He is a busy man. But I don’t know how someone couldn’t be enamored with you.”_

\--Stiles swallows his bite. 

“Anyways,” Stiles says. “I ran into them at the mall today. Talia and Minnie. And the kid. Talia invited me over.”

“That’s really nice of her,” his dad says. “Talia’s always liked you. She always asks after you at Town Hall meetings.” 

“She does?” Stiles asks, smiling. “That’s awesome.”

“Hmm,” his dad makes a noise of agreement. “What did you get at the mall?”

“Uh--,” Stiles stammers, thrown. Usually his dad is back into his files by now. “New stuff. For my place.”

“Good,” his dad says. “Have you replaced that old bed yet?”

“Not yet,” Stiles says. 

“I haven’t bought you anything big in a while,” his dad says, elbowing the case further away. “Let’s get you a bed.”

Then, they talk. About nothing and about memories and about the Mets. And Stiles leaves with this brittle, tight feeling in his chest. It’s a nice feeling. Like wings unfurling. 

***

The next day, Stiles wakes up after sunrise. His bed is his childhood one, moved to a new apartment. His sheets are new, soft jersey cotton in a dark green color. His walls have hectic and busy decoration, things he likes and things that make him smile, and he has new furniture being delivered. All of his old furniture is at the dump, he painstakingly made four trips to throw his shitty futon and his old table and all the various things he hates about his apartment. 

He sits up, smiling at himself a little. 

He barely has time to make a pot of coffee when the first of the furniture delivery starts. The Hales arrive moments after the last delivery is done and Three slingshots through the doorway like a bullet. 

“Stiles!” He cheers, clinging to Stiles’ waist with gumption. “We brought Uncle Peter and Derek.”

“Oh,” Stiles says, looking up and meeting Peter’s eyes. Peter looks like a catalog model. Stiles is still wearing pajama pants with Marvin the Martian on them. “Hey, guys. Let me go change.”

“I think you look great,” Three says immediately. “I wish I had pants like that.”

“Oh, I think I have--Hold on,” Stiles says. He disappears into his room and changes into jeans and a hoodie. The Marvin pajama pants were a set and the shirt is stuffed into the back of his closet. He exits his room, holding it up in the air like it’s a trophy. “Here you go, little dude.”

Three puts the cheap, ugly shirt on at once and Stiles grins at him once his head pokes through the neck. 

Minnie sets them all into motion, assigning tasks with ruthless efficiency. Stiles and Three end up setting the Christmas bathroom up and Derek and Peter begin moving furniture as Minnie dictates. It slowly comes together and, after their lunch break, they finish quickly. 

Derek and Three drop onto Stiles’ new sofa with enthusiasm and Stiles distantly appreciates the muscles in his upper arms as he lifts a giggling Three up over his head. His eyes slide away after a moment and he meets Peter’s knowing smile. Stiles crosses over to him, leaning on the wall and smiling up at him. 

“Thank you for helping,” Stiles says. “I really appreciate this.”

“Oh, it’s not for you,” Peter says, grinning with teeth. “I just have a passion for decor abominations.”

“Is that right?” Stiles asks, eyes crinkling. 

“I heard ‘Santa bathroom’ and had to witness the monstrosity myself,” Peter says. “But I have to confess, it’s very you. I couldn’t imagine a different bathroom now.”

Stiles stifles a smile as a giddy feeling bubbles in his chest. Peter just keeps looking at facets of his life and reading all of Stiles’ secrets like they’re spray painted on the walls. 

“You think so?” Stiles asks, voice softer than he means it to be. 

“Absolutely,” Peter says, quiet too. “It’s nice to see some of you. Not the watered-down you. But a real glimpse into what you keep stifled all day.”

“I’m an acquired taste,” Stiles says, daring Peter to disagree. Wishing he will. 

“You are not. You were always meant to be enjoyed but most people aren’t clever enough to figure out how to,” Peter says and Stiles feels all the air slip out of the room. 

“Are we going to, like, make out now?” Stiles asks, trying to get control of himself and the situation. His heart is thudding in his chest and Peter exhales a laugh. 

Stiles’ heart keeps thudding. 

  
  



End file.
